Beyond the trees and up the hill, the monks gather.
They keep the hours in the pleats of their cowls,
offer them, daily bread, to each brother,
a psalm for each body, prayers for all souls.
Then they turn and file past the Body
nailed wooden to the wood they each revere,
bow their already-bowed and bent bodies,
touch their fingers to the feet they tender dear.
Quiet so big I hear their distant chants
drifting on the breath of peace Christ grants.